Quote

Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?

Pablo Neruda

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Pablo Neruda
Age: 69 †
Born: 1904
Born: July 12
Died: 1973
Died: September 23
Author
Autobiographer
Diplomat
Lyricist
Poet
Politician
Senator Of Chile
Nieh-lu-ta
Neftalí Reyes Basoalto
Pamplo Nerouda
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes
Bāblū Nīrūdā
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Nieluda
Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Reyes Basualto
Neftali Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Ricardo Reyes
Neftalí Reyes Basualto
Pāplō Nerūda
Automobile
Regret
Regrets
Train
Dress
Rain
Trees
Thieving
Standing
Dresses
Sadder
Tree
Naked
Conceal
Tell
Rose
Hears
Anything
Splendor
World
Roots

More quotes by Pablo Neruda

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my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.
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I was the owner of my own darkness.
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And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.
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Oh love, rose made wet by mermaids and foams, fire that dances and climbs up the invisible stairs and awakens the blood in the tunnel of sleeplessness.
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The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.
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I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
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What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
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It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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Then Scale by scale, We strip off The delicacy And eat The peaceful mush Of its green heart.
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Without doubt I praise the wild excellence.
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About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you
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And our problems will crumble apart, the soul / blow through like a wind, and here where we live will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.
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On our earth, before writing was invented, before the printing press was invented, poetry flourished. That is why we know that poetry is like bread it should be shared by all, by scholars and by peasants, by all our vast, incredible, extraordinary family of humanity.
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From scarlet to powdered gold, to blazing yellow, to the rare ashen emerald, to the orange and black velvet of your shimmering corselet, out to the tip that like an amber thorn begins you, small, superlative being, you are a miracle, and you blaze
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If you no longer live, if you my beloved, my love, if you have died, all the leaves will fall in my breast, it will rain in my soul night and day, the snow will burn my heart, I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow, my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but I shall live
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To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
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I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.
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A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who doesn't play has lost forever the child who lived in him and who he will miss terribly.
Pablo Neruda
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O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature.
Pablo Neruda
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Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.
Pablo Neruda